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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255664">one for the partridge, two for the hare</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous'>procellous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(because Ramsay), Alpha/Omega Dynamics, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Like Don't Read, Erogenous dick scar smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Pregnancy Kink, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, The OTV in the North, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:02:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,052</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon and Sansa have an arrangement: she helps him through his heats, but she's not his mate. It's just a favor between friends, same as he had with Robb. </p><p>Now, if only his stupid heart would get the message. </p><p>(And the past refuses to stay buried…)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robb Stark/Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy &amp; Yara Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yeah, yeah, first thing I write for my current favorite pairing and it's kinky porn with pining, everyone act surprised. (I'd say porn with <em>plot,</em> but…let's be real here. There's not a lot of plot.) Quarantine means I'm horny and isolated, and my kinks keep multiplying ^v^</p><p>This is a multichapter fic; I think it'll be five chapters, but it's not finished yet, so we'll see how it goes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sansa closed the heavy door of the tower room behind her, locking and bolting it securely. The room was practically a vault; the heavy door’s lock had only two iron keys, and there were no windows, only a narrow chimney. </p><p>She stripped out of her clothes, leaving them draped over a chair. Theon got cold easily, so she had given him the warmest rooms—including the tower vault-room—but that meant it was nearly unbearable for her to be fully dressed in them. </p><p>It was unbearable to be dressed at all for other reasons. </p><p>Theon lay sprawled on the bed, fingers driving deep into his soaking wet cunt. He whimpered as she approached, legs spreading wide to display himself. His eyes were dark and glazed with lust, his sweat-slick hair clinging to his face. One of her hair ribbons was wrapped around his wrist, held close to his face. She smiled at the sight. </p><p>“I’m here, darling, I’ll take care of you,” she soothed, pushing his hair back from his eyes and kissing his forehead. It was too intimate a gesture for a relationship that was only sex, but Theon didn’t seem to mind, his eyes fluttering shut as he pushed up into her hand, baring his neck for her. </p><p>That would <em>definitely</em> be a step too far, so Sansa just kissed him again and let her hands trail downwards, over every ridge and pit of scars, every plane of his beautiful body. Theon whined as she went, burying his face in the crook of her neck. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “Shh, I’ve got you. I’m going to fuck you into the sheets, sweetling, I’m going to make you scream for me.” Theon liked it when she talked, but she had been hesitant at the start of their arrangement, her cheeks turning to flame at the thought of what they were doing, let alone saying it, but that embarrassment had faded with practice. </p><p>She kissed his cheek and lifted him up so that he was straddling her lap rather than having her braced above him. </p><p>“Please,” he gasped, “please, <em>Sansa</em>—”</p><p>She knew she would find him soaking wet—his fingers were still working at himself, though slower and gentler than they had been, and she could hear every wet noise—but she still teased at the soft, swollen lips of his entrance with two fingers, pushing his hand out of the way. Theon mewled, spreading his legs wider as she slipped them all the way in, burying them up to the third knuckle. </p><p>“Greedy little thing,” she crooned, the way he liked. “Do you want more, my sweet?”</p><p>“Yes, yes, <em>please</em>, I need it.” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes closed, but his hips rocked against her hand, driving her fingers into him, rubbing himself against the heel of her palm shamelessly. “Need you inside me so bad, please, need you to fill me.”</p><p>“What do you want? I want to hear you say it, darling.” She brushed her thumb against the neat scar, nearly hidden in a nest of dark curls. Theon whined, his thighs trembling around her hips, his nails digging into her shoulders. </p><p>“Yes, fuck, I—I <em>want</em> it, I want your cock, please,” he gasped. “I want you to mate me, want you to make me yours, want you to keep me forever, please, please Sansa.” There were tears in his eyes, running down his flushed cheeks, and she kissed them away. Theon was in heat; he’d say anything that would get him fucked. She knew he didn’t mean it, and knew he’d be mortified when the haze had cleared and he remembered what he’d said. He was always embarrassed afterwards, avoiding her for a few days—it went against her need to see him cherished and cared for, especially after his heat, but she knew that he wouldn’t appreciate her fussing and hovering, even if a part of her was eager to put him in her bed and keep him there, safe and sated, maybe with a swell to his belly from their babe. </p><p>“Shh, shh, it’s alright, my heart, I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you what you need.”</p><p>She wiggled out from under him, leaving him sitting back against the headboard of the large bed while she kissed his lips, then down along the column of his neck—careful to avoid the large bite-mark on the join between his neck and his shoulder—and down to his heat-swollen chest, his stomach, down to the scar where his cock once was. She sucked on it, lightly, running her tongue along the line of it as she followed it down to the pink, swollen folds hidden away between his thighs. She crooked her fingers, lapping and sucking at him, drinking him down, pressing her thighs together to quell the urge to claim him. </p><p><em>Not yet</em>, she told herself. <em>Patience</em>. </p><p>Theon was babbling pleas above her, a ragged chorus of <em>please, Sansa, I need</em>, his hips rolling over her tongue and fingers as she worked at him. He tasted so good; she wondered if he would taste so sweet outside of his heats. </p><p>“Come for me, sweetling,” she murmured into him, crooking her fingers as she sucked at the scar. </p><p>Theon cried out in pleasure, his fingers clenching in her hair, pulling almost painfully as he peaked. </p><p>“Good boy,” she said, stroking his thigh. “Very good. I’m proud of you. Do you still want me inside you?”</p><p> “<em>Please</em>,” Theon sobbed. </p><p>He gave a small sigh of pleasure as she slid inside him, replacing her fingers with her cock. He was warm and slick around her, and it was easy to thrust in, to go deeper and deeper into him, chasing her own peak. Theon’s gasp of pleasure was one of the sweetest sounds she knew, especially with the low moan that followed it as he rolled his hips and took her farther in. They fit together so well, like he’d been made to feel this pleasure and nothing else. </p><p>“Gods, Theon, you feel so good,” she said, kissing the unscarred side of his neck. He tasted like salt. “Such a sweet thing you are, so precious. I love you so much.”</p><p>“More,” he begged, eyes glazed with pleasure. “Please, please, I need more, I need you, Sansa—“ His voice turned into a moan as she thrust into him again. </p><p>“You have me, I’m here,” she said. She knew what he was really asking for, of course: for her to mate him and get him with child, to mark him and keep him, but she also knew that he didn’t really want that. He hardly let her touch him outside of his heats; if she marked him he’d hate her forever for betraying his trust in her. </p><p>He tightened around her as he came again, and that was all Sansa needed to push her over the edge as well. She spent inside him with a low moan, half-collapsing onto Theon as she pulled out. She giggled, the rush of sex fading, and nuzzled into the side of his neck, rolling off him. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” </p><p>“Better. Thanks.” He was still flushed with heat as he clung to her, body molding against her side. “Can we just stay like this for a while?”</p><p>“Of course,” she said. “As long as you want.” </p><p>She really couldn’t deny Theon anything, especially not when he gave a contented sigh and cuddled up against her, loose-limbed and affectionate, but her heart ached as she reminded herself that she couldn’t get used to this—that Theon didn’t want her, that he wasn’t hers. This was just his heat; he was clearer, but still craving affection and touch that he didn’t want outside of it. </p><p>He mumbled something into her shoulder, half-asleep. </p><p>⁂</p><p>Theon pulled the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders and tucked his nose into the fur, letting Sansa’s clean scent surround him: lavender and rosemary and a hint of lemon. The lavender and rosemary were just from her soap, the same kind that everyone in the castle used, but the lemons were her own, had been since they were all children together in the summer sun. </p><p>His whole body ached from his heat, every part of his body sore, but his heart ached the most. He knew it was stupid. H knew that Sansa didn’t want him. They had agreed that she would help him through his heats and nothing more. It was a favor between friends—Robb had done the same for him a dozen times over. </p><p>He’d fallen in love with Robb, too. </p><p>His hand crept up to the scar on his neck. Robb had never tried to break the bond, even when he knew what Theon had done, even when he thought that Theon had killed his brothers. Theon had never tried either, and he wondered what Robb had thought of that—of finding out that he had taken Winterfell and killed Robb’s brothers with an unbroken bond still thrumming between them. </p><p>His fingertips brushed the edges of the scar, enough to call up the memory of that night—Robb’s body pressed against his, pale, freckled skin marked with red from Theon’s teeth and nails, their chests heaving, their fingers interlocked. There had always been an edge to their fucking, like fighting, but afterwards Robb would hold him tight, kiss his forehead, stroke his hair. </p><p>He had forgotten that Robb treated him like that, like something precious and treasured, something prized. If Theon hadn’t left for Pyke on that stupid fucking mission, trying to convince his father, maybe…maybe it would all be different. Maybe they’d have married and had children, heirs to three kingdoms, children with his green eyes and Robb’s red curls…</p><p>Theon pressed a hand to his stomach. If there had ever been anything there, it was long gone, bled out before it was anything more than a hope. </p><p>But there was that betrothal to the Freys. If it had been Theon that Robb had married instead of the faceless girl he had broken the alliance for, it wouldn’t have made a difference—the Red Wedding would have still happened, and they would all still be dead, and Sansa would still be in Ramsay’s clutches. </p><p>He tucked his knees up under the blanket, watching the snow blow around the ramparts. He hated this heartache; not just the memory of Robb’s warmth, but Sansa’s as well. He wanted to go to her, to kneel down by her feet so that she could play with his hair, to bare his neck for her teeth, to wake up in her arms, safe and warm and protected. He wanted to take care of her, to rub the stiffness from her shoulders, to hold her when her nightmares came. </p><p>He knew he wasn’t good enough for her, knew she didn’t feel the same way, and he knew that she would, someday, find someone who was worthy of her. He’d have to leave, then—she’d be kind about it, unbearably kind, but he’d have to go back to Pyke and pretend that the pieces of his battered heart weren’t still in Winterfell. </p><p>But Yara already knew that. </p><p>Someone opened the door leading up to the battlements, heels clicking against the stone. Theon didn’t turn around; he knew who it was. </p><p>“I thought I might find you up here,” Sansa said. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said. “Just came up here to think.”</p><p>“Do you mind if I join you, then?”</p><p>“No.” <em>Yes</em>. “Go ahead.”</p><p>She sat next to him, not quite touching him. Almost, though; there was maybe a fingersbreadth between them. </p><p>A long, quiet moment passed. Theon adjusted his blanket around his knees. </p><p>“Are you happy?” Sansa asked. </p><p>His brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“In general. Overall.” Her expression was unreadable as she stared out into the snow, watching the flakes falling around them. “Are you happy with your life here?”</p><p>“Mostly.”</p><p>“What would make you happier?”</p><p>“I…” His hand drifted up to his neck, fingers curling protectively around the scar. “It’s nothing, really.”</p><p>“If there’s something I can do to help, I want to.”</p><p>He wanted to blame the urge to beg her to claim him on the lingering traces of his heat, but he knew it wasn’t just that. Even when his heat was weeks away, he had to avoid her touch or he’d beg for her to fuck him then and there, even on the council table in front of all the gathered lords—</p><p>He shifted under the blanket, pressing his heel to his cunt, trying to relieve some of the aching lust at the thought of being claimed so publicly without her noticing. He laughed softly at the irony. </p><p>“There’s nothing you can do.”</p><p>She laid her hand on his shoulder, and all he could think about was her pushing him down and filling him up, burying herself deep inside him, using him for her pleasure and leaving him aching and sore and full and so, so good. </p><p>“Theon,” she said, her brows knitting, “are you feeling well? You look flushed.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he said, as though he didn’t feel a little bit on fire. “It’s just the end of the heat, nothing to worry about.”</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>Her hand shifted, just a little, and brushed the edge of the mating scar. For a moment, he was back in the tent with Robb, pinned down under his strong hands, his legs wrapped around Robb’s hips to pull him closer. </p><p>“You and <em>Robb</em>?” Sansa asked, blinking in shock. “I thought the scar came from—“</p><p>“Ramsay?” Theon laughed, bitter and harsh, looking away. “Mating goes both ways, and Ramsay didn’t want anyone to have a claim on him, I think. He bit me, a lot, but he never tried to claim me for a mate. I think it was the only way he didn’t try to claim me.”</p><p>“I would have thought that Robb would sever it. Or that you would.”</p><p>Theon shrugged. “He never did. I don’t know why.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you?”</p><p>His arms tightened around his knees. There were tears in his eyes, he realized; spilling over onto his cheeks and dying on his lips. “I wanted to. My father was furious when he saw it, he said that I was…that I was a traitor.” Sansa didn’t need to know what, exactly, Balon Greyjoy had called his last son. Traitor had been among the kindest of the words he’d used. “But I could never bring myself to do it. I still loved him. Still love him. It would be a lie to break it.”</p><p>“Is that why you…why you’ve never sought out another mate?”</p><p>Theon hesitated. “A little.” <em>I want you to mate me.</em> She didn’t want that, he reminded himself. She didn’t want him; helping him through his heats was a far cry from actually wanting him by her side for the rest of their lives. </p><p>“You know I’d never…I’d never try to take his place with you, right?” He glanced over to her, finding tears in her eyes. “I’m not him. And I can’t replace him for you, I know that.”</p><p>“So do I. I…Sansa, I don’t—you’re not a replacement for him. You never have been. You’re your own person, and I lo—I like you for yourself. Not because of who Robb was to me.”</p><p>“I know that, too.” She gave him a small smile, and he returned it. “It’s alright, Theon. I just want you to know that I don't expect—that I’ll never try to claim you.”</p><p>He had known that she didn’t want him, but hearing her say it so plainly—as though it was a comfort—felt like a blade through his heart, splitting it in two. He knew, he reminded himself. He knew that she didn’t want him, he knew that he wasn’t hers, and he knew that he never would be. She deserved better than him, she deserved someone whole. Someone more like her, someone strong and brave and gentle and kind and good, someone who’d take care of her. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, and he buried his face in her shoulder. </p><p>“Theon? What’s wrong?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” he lied, clinging to her. “I’m fine.”</p><p>⁂</p><p>He sat in a shadowed corner of the tavern, listening. Scraps of a dozen conversations floated by. </p><p>
  <em>some ale, girl</em><br/>
<em>from Winterfell</em><br/>
<em>you met her?</em><br/>
<em>just kill the damned thing</em><br/>
<em>after the King died</em><br/>
<em>that was my goat</em><br/>
<em>she’s a witch</em><br/>
<em>our witch<br/>
bunch of lace<br/>
</em>
  <em>Bear Island</em><br/>
<em>aye, that’s true</em><br/>
<em>the blacksmith’s wife</em><br/>
<em>no Queen but</em><br/>
<em>don’t be absurd</em><br/>
<em>killed her husband</em><br/>
<em>saw the blacksmith yesterday</em><br/>
<em>worth it, though</em><br/>
<em>I’d do the same</em><br/>
<em>that thrice-damned bastard</em><br/>
<em>they say she turns into a wolf at night</em>
</p><p>He stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood, and left the tavern, his cloak catching the wind. </p><p>He lowered his hood and turned his face north, the clear cold sky above him. He'd been too long away. </p><p>Robb was going home. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A completely SFW chapter. It's like I'm not even committed to the concept of porn.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Theon was always distant after a heat, pulling away from her before drawing closer again as his heat approached, and each time Sansa carefully didn’t think about how much she missed him. Theon always looked exhausted the further he pulled away, worn-down and almost ill, as though he was about to collapse under his own weight, and all Sansa could think was <em>I could keep you safe</em>. She never said anything, just worried; Theon wasn’t hers to care for. </p><p>Ever since she had spoken to him on the parapets, he seemed more distant than usual. She couldn’t help but worry that she had been too forward, pushed too far when they talked about Robb, and the way he had broken down in tears…</p><p>Had he been so scared that she would claim him? Or was there something else? He had clung to her as he wept, and for a moment she could have sworn that there was <em>something</em> there, but the next day he was more ghost than man, disappearing as soon as she saw him. The two days after that, she didn’t see him at all, and her patience frayed and snapped. </p><p>“Jeyne,” she said, “would you please tell Theon I’d like to see him?”</p><p>Jeyne nodded and left. It wasn’t long before Theon came in, looking like he was bracing himself for a blow. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sansa said, before Theon could do more than open his mouth. “I shouldn’t have summoned you like that, but…I was worried.”</p><p>“Worried,” Theon echoed, flatly. Sansa swallowed her nerves. </p><p>“I haven’t seen you in a few days. I always worry about you, but…more so when I don’t know what’s going on.” She reached out, not quite touching him. He shifted his weight so that she was cradling his cheek. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”</p><p>“I…I’ve been having nightmares. They’ll pass.”</p><p>“Would you like to spend nights with me? My own nightmares get better when I share a bed.”</p><p>“No,” Theon said, taking a step back. “No, I—it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”</p><p>The more he said the word <em>fine</em>, the less confident she was with his assessment. </p><p>“What does it matter, anyway?” he said, and both of them froze. “No—I—that wasn’t what I meant—”</p><p>“I want you to be happy because I care about you.” Sansa took a small step forward. </p><p>“You shouldn’t.”</p><p>She mustered a smile. It felt weak. “But I do. Please, I want to know what’s bothering you, even if there’s nothing I can do. We’re friends.”</p><p>Theon’s face twisted into a dozen different emotions, too fast to name them all. Finally he sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. </p><p>“There’s,” he said, “there’s someone I want as my mate, but it’ll never happen, and…” His voice trailed off. His shrug looked deliberately casual. </p><p><em>Be strong,</em> she told her heart. <em>We knew he didn’t want us.</em> “Who is it?”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter. Really, it doesn’t, because she doesn’t want me. Besides,” he gave her a pained smile, “even if she did, she deserves a better match than me.”</p><p>Sansa raised an eyebrow. “A better match than a prince?”</p><p>Theon’s smile dropped. His voice was small when he said, “You know that’s not what I was talking about.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine anyone knowing you and not wanting you,” she said, trying to sound light and casual. He’d already made it clear to her that he didn’t want her, and he didn’t need her demanding that he reciprocate her affections. She knew that feeling too well.</p><p>He flinched at her words, and Sansa’s heart gained a new crack. “She told me herself. She wasn’t cruel about it, don’t look at me like that, but she was clear that she doesn’t want me like that.” His hand crept up to his neck, like he was shielding the mark. </p><p>“Out of curiosity,” she said, as though she didn’t want to do something rash and foolish, “who is she?”</p><p>Theon’s eyes dropped to study the toes of his boots. “You,” he said, so quietly that she almost thought that she imagined it, and bolted for the door. </p><p>“Theon, wait!” she called, reaching out for him, but he was already gone, disappeared down the hall and into the bustle of the castle. She didn’t bother trying to follow him; Theon could disappear as well as Arya could when he wanted to. Worse, it would make him feel hunted. She had already pushed too far by summoning him in the first place. </p><p>Sansa sank down in her chair, turning the conversation over and over in her mind, trying to find some hint or clue that it was her that Theon had been talking about. How long had he wanted her? Surely not from the start, when he had gone ashen-faced and trembled like a leaf at the very thought of mating, when he’d made her promise that she wouldn’t bite him. When had he changed his mind? Had he given her some sign that she’d missed? Or had he kept it carefully secret, fearing an outright rejection? </p><p>That did sound like Theon. She sighed, putting the thought away. The best thing to do would be to wait for Theon to come back—he just needed time to compose himself, and she could tell him that she felt the same way. She smiled at the thought. They’d need to talk about it, of course, but then she could keep him right by her side, where he belonged. It always felt so right when he was near to her. </p><p>⁂</p><p>Theon’s breath came in harsh pants, his ribs feeling too tight to draw air into his lungs. His feet took him to what had been Robb’s bedchamber, now empty. Dust lay thickly over the room. He swallowed, closing the door behind him. </p><p>The bed was gone, of course, as was the rest of the furniture. All of it was too valuable to be left to sit and gather dust. There was no sign that the room had ever been lived in—no sign that it had ever been Robb’s. There were no boots by the fireplace, no rumpled furs on the bed, no sword leaning against the wall. Even the tapestries had gone. It was an empty room like so many others in Winterfell, without so much as a ghost to warm the walls and stir the dust. Robb wasn’t here, no more than he was in his empty tomb in the crypts. </p><p>Robb wasn’t anywhere that Theon could reach. Robb was gone; Robb was earth and nothing. </p><p>Eyes dry, Theon went back to the chambers Sansa had given him. He couldn’t stay, that was clear. Robb had wanted him, for some reason, but that was before he had done everything that he had done; hoping that <em>Sansa</em> would want him, after everything, was beyond stupid. Theon was many things, and beyond stupid was probably one of them, but he wasn’t going to torture himself by sticking around. </p><p>He had known it was coming. Earlier than he would have guessed, without as much warning, but inevitable either way. </p><p>He dug out a bag, filling it quickly. He’d go back to the Iron Islands, stay by Yara’s side. It would hurt, of course, but everything <em>did</em>, so what did it matter? What was one more pain in a life full of them?</p><p>He didn’t need to take much; he didn’t have much to take. Clothes. His bow and quiver. A small purse of coin. One of Sansa’s hair ribbons, which he carefully tied around his wrist. </p><p>He took out a sheet of parchment and quickly sharpened a quill. </p><p><em>Sansa</em>, he wrote. <em>I’m sorry. I’m going back to Pyke. You never have to see me again. Theon.</em></p><p>He stared at the strip of grey cloth around his wrist, and then sighed, unpicking the knot. He left the hair ribbon beside the letter. </p><p>Theon turned and left, his bag slung over his shoulder. Some old habit had him going down to the spare room by the armory, empty as it had ever been. There was more of Robb’s ghost here, he thought; it had been untouched by everyone who had taken Winterfell and was cold and bare, as it had been when they were children, stealing kisses and leaving notes for each other behind the loose stone. </p><p>Or maybe it wasn’t; all of Winterfell had been warmer then. Theon’s memories were tinged with a warmth—summer, perhaps, or simply smiles. His own had come easier then and Robb’s were always freely given. </p><p>Theon wiggled it out, some strange nostalgia spurring him on. There was no chance that there was anything there, after all. Robb had left Winterfell with Theon, and never came back. There would be nothing there but old mortar and threadbare memories and dust. </p><p>The envelope was neatly folded, with <em>Theon</em> written on the back in familiar chicken-scratch. </p><p>Theon’s hands were shaking too much to break the seal. A drop of water fell on the parchment, and Theon scrubbed a furious hand across his eyes. Did he even want to read it? Once he opened it, that would be it—the last words he would hear from Robb. </p><p>What were Robb’s last words? Had he been afraid? Had he been angry?</p><p>He tucked the letter into his pocket, and went outside into the cold air, looking up at Winterfell, trying to remember how it felt to be a small boy, looking up at the castle and thinking that it was unmovable and so were all its people. </p><p>How wrong he’d been. They were only mortal, and they had all paid the price for that. </p><p>He glanced up to the window of Sansa’s solar, or what he guessed was her solar. He ruined everything he touched. He should have remembered that before he had opened his mouth. What had he been thinking?</p><p>He hadn’t, of course. </p><p>“I miss you,” he told the walls, under his breath. “I miss what we were. What we could have been.” He could picture it too clearly to be anything but a dream: Robb with grey in his hair and beard, Sansa’s hair streaked with white, laughter lines around their eyes that would crinkle when they saw Theon, their arms opening to hold him close. </p><p>He closed his eyes, shaking his head to try to clear the vision. It was a dream and nothing more. Robb was dead. Sansa probably hated him now. It would never happen. </p><p>He saddled his horse—a mare that resembled Smiler, mostly in temperament—and rode away from Winterfell. </p><p>Theon’s breathing didn’t come easily until he had reached the coast, and his lungs filled with salt air and the smell of fish and tar. </p><p>⁂</p><p>Robb travelled slowly. He had left Riverrun with a small purse of coin and his uncles’ blessings—and a hug from his tiny cousin—but the coin was quickly lost; there were too many whose homes and lands had been ravaged by the war. By his war. It hadn’t felt right to walk past them without giving them something. When the purse was empty, he started doing odd jobs—mending fences, sharpening tools, lending his hands and back to the work that needed doing. </p><p>He wasn’t Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the King in the North, to these people—he was just Robb, who had fought for Riverrun against the Lannister siege. Every village and hamlet had a Robb or two; what was one more, going home after the war? </p><p>Through it all, he heard more rumors of the Queen. She saw through the eyes of wolves, insisted some; others held that she <em>was</em> a wolf, disguised as a woman. One even said that she took a wolf as her lover. </p><p>And then there were the songs…</p><p>The melodies were the same simple tunes that everyone knew, with an endless supply of lyrics—most of them raunchy—but reworked to be about the Queen. Robb doubted any of them were true. As mad as the world had become, he doubted that she killed Joffery with a spell and then turned into a wolf with bat wings and flew away, though he couldn’t fault her if she had; and he really doubted that the Long Night came again. </p><p>Brynden had asked him why he was so determined to go to Winterfell, and Robb had given him a vague answer about family. The truth wasn’t something he wanted to admit. </p><p>He owed Sansa an apology. He had failed her at every turn—abandoning her to the Lannisters in the first place, not trading the Kingslayer for her and Arya, losing the war he had started, and then leaving her nothing but the weight of his crown.</p><p>His hand crept up to his neck unconsciously, and he quickly pulled his hand back down again. Theon was dead and a traitor. A dead traitor. He should have broken the bond years ago, but…<br/>He still didn’t know why he hadn’t broken it. Maybe it was just that Theon hadn’t, and he had some thought that Theon still loved him, deep down. </p><p>Maybe it was just that he still loved Theon, despite everything. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I love how D&amp;D just completely forgot that the Riverlands existed. Where's my Tully family road trip kicking Lannifrey butt out of the Riverlands? Robb, Roslin, Edmure, and Brynden all teaming up, maybe toss Lady Stoneheart and Nymeria in the mix, rallying the remaining loyal Riverlords to their banner…</p><p>…Do I have to write that myself? I think I might have to. Fuck. Not like I don't have enough to write.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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